


The Bone Thief

by mister_otter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Magic, F/M, Mystery, Potions, Remix, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_otter/pseuds/mister_otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's a brilliant, eccentric solver of magical problems, Hermione's the Ministry employee who always manages to get herself assigned to help him. Their latest case hints at mystery and dark magic.  But what game is really afoot?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bone Thief

“Draco. Where are you, Draco?”

“By the sea.”

“Is it day? Or night?”

“The stars are out.”

“Night, then. Dammit!” Pansy Parkinson swung around to face Hermione Granger with a look that was both angry and plaintive. “He always succeeds. Why does he _always_ succeed?” 

“Because he’s Malfoy. Brilliant. Calculating. Possibly soulless. Oh, did I forget lucky? Mix them together and there’s your answer.” 

Hermione leaned over Draco, who was seated on a leather chair before an open window full of sun. Grasping his chin, she tilted his head back, pouring a slimy white potion into his mouth.

Draco coughed, sputtered, and fell out of the chair, dead unconscious on the floor. 

“Should we levitate him into bed?” Hermione asked, waving her wand to verify that he was still alive.

“No.” Pansy stalked to the sofa, retrieved a soft blanket, and spread it over Draco’s recumbent body. “Let him sleep it off right there. If the gods are generous, he’ll wake up with the pounding headache he deserves.” She poked Draco with the toe of one sleek, expensive shoe and he began to snore a little. “I can’t believe I grew up imagining I wanted to marry _this._ ”

Hermione, who had watched over Draco one too many times during his more questionable experiments, couldn’t believe it either. Those two would likely have snarked each other into early graves.

“Whose turn is it to stay with him?” she asked.

“Mine,” Pansy replied. “But I’ve places to see, things to be, and people to do. All related to the Ministry, of course.” She grinned. “Would you handle it this time?”

Hermione nodded as a look passed between them. In spite of their scathing words earlier, Draco Malfoy had no more staunch or fierce protectors. Pansy, the indispensable right hand of Head Auror Harry Potter, and Hermione, who worked in Mysteries and Research but was always assigned to any case that involved Malfoy, freelance solver of complicated problems. The darker and more mysterious, the better.

“I’ll floo you later to see what he’s got to say for himself.” Pansy moved toward the fireplace of Malfoy’s flat in a quiet part of wizarding London.

“Fine, but I can’t imagine it will be any different from the last dozen times. ‘All’s fair in the pursuit of truth and magic, Granger.’ Even when it involves twisting up the dark.”

Hermione knelt to retrieve what looked like a capped vial of night sky lying on the floor near Malfoy’s head. It was part of his latest potions work and no doubt dark in more ways than just its color. 

She sighed, stilling her fingers before they could reach out to brush back the hair that straggled across his forehead, her eyes lingering on his finely shaped lips. Draco seemed sculpted from some pale and lovely stone, like Michelangelo’s _David_. Except, of course, that he wasn’t naked. Except, of course, in her dreams.

As she rose from the floor, she found Pansy watching her closely. 

“Be careful, Hermione.” The other girl’s voice held a softly spoken warning. “Don’t fall.”

A tick too late for that bit of advice. Their eyes locked, two expert Occlumens who could never quite manage to fool each other.

“I really must run.” Pansy was the first to shrug and smile. “Harry’s waiting, no doubt with a fat stack of miracles for me to perform before the day ends.”

“Go work your wonders, then.” Hermione touched the other witch’s arm as she stepped into the fireplace, her own words a soft, sudden echo: “But Pans… don’t fall.”

Pansy gave a noncommittal “mmph,” and disappeared in a flash of green.

After she was gone, Hermione retrieved the satchel of papers she’d brought with her and lugged it over to Malfoy’s chair. Proof positive that her unconscious mind had known she would volunteer to stay, no matter whose turn it was. 

From his place on the floor, Draco gave a grumpy snort. Hermione avoided looking at him, attempting to focus on her paperwork. But she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she found herself wondering what he might be dreaming, where his potions experiments might have taken him this time. 

She knew what he was doing, of course. Nearly a year ago she’d been assigned to her first case with him. Even then, he was experimenting with questionable concoctions that he could drink before ducking his head into a Pensieve to view a witness’ memory of a crime scene. 

“I’m searching for something,” he’d told her, “that will allow me to enter a memory and stretch it just the tiniest bit. To peek around the corner of a street, or view the final moments _before_ the witness arrived on the scene.”

“You’re messing with the fabric of time,” Hermione replied. “That’s dangerous.”

“Yes. I know.” His grin was huge and boyish. “But who are you to question me, Mistress Time Turner?”

And so he’d continued, time travelling in his mind, dipping his fingers into illegal dark potions that only Hermione and Pansy knew he possessed. Perhaps they should report it. But his work had become so valuable to Harry, to the Ministry, to the wizarding world in general. Neither felt willing to betray his trust. Not that it would have stopped him. He’d simply have gone and done it elsewhere.

Hermione wandered restlessly about Draco’s flat. It was a beautiful space, made up of two huge, high ceilinged rooms. Ornate medallions encircled the spots where chandeliers once hung. The windows were tall, elegantly arched, and full of light. His landlady, a jolly, motherly witch, provided him with meals as well as lodging. 

Draco had arranged the first room as a living area, the second as his laboratory. Hermione roamed there now, taking in the long tables, the potions equipment and ingredients, the mysterious mechanical devices for which she had no name, all jumbled together in a sort of organized chaos. 

Of it all, the most mysterious item was Malfoy himself. 

After the War, he’d offered quietly aristocratic apologies on his family’s behalf and then promptly disappeared. When he resurfaced years later, he was… different. Many used the word ‘odd’ and Hermione had to admit he could be that. But after working with him for ten months, she knew he was also intriguing. 

He was the perfect remedy for her best-kept-secret boredom.

She liked his cleverness, his insights, his flashes of boyish excitement. Liked them a bit too much, maybe.

Wandering back into the bedsit part of the flat, she saw that Malfoy was stirring. He’d folded his arms behind his head, crossed his legs at the ankles, and was grinning up at her as if he hadn’t just come back from dark, unknown mental territory. 

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Dusk.”

“What’s the weather like?”

“Changing. We’re due for fog and mist tonight.”

“Perfect!”

“For what?”

“For dressing up in Edwardian gear and prowling about the cemetery.”

Draco leaped to his feet, straightening his clothes and tousling his hair with his fingers, unaffected by his hours in the grip of an experimental potion. “Care to join me?”

Hermione nodded and then hid a smile. Apparently, Pansy had not got her wish from the gods for a headache-stricken Malfoy. He was in the mood for adventure, and she was in the mood to see where it would lead.

*

Draco’s latest mystery involved an odd, gravesite disturbance. Normally the Ministry wouldn’t have asked for his help with such a minor crime, but there were indications of dark magic afoot. And where else would that logically lead, except to midnight meetings in fog-wrapped cemeteries? 

A few charms and wand-waves later, Hermione was dressed in a snug-fitting, blue-on-blue jacket with an admittedly cute little bustle across her rear and a skirt just short enough to show off her buttonhook boots. 

Draco’s gear was dove grey. The grey color matched his eyes perfectly. The ‘dove’ part, Hermione decided, was laughably misplaced. 

“Explain to me again why dressing in costume is necessary to our investigation?” she asked, adjusting the pert hat that sat atop her curls.

“London’s an old city, Granger. Conjuring the spirit of the Gaslight Era creates atmosphere and gives our quest an authentic feel.”

“The city’s far older than that, Malfoy. Why not Medieval costumes? Or Elizabethan?”

“Elizabethans wore ruffs and no underpants. No one in the group wanted to search for clues dressed like that.”

“Group? What group? Who else is…” Hermione’s questions were cut off as Draco grabbed her arm and Apparated them from his flat.

Seconds later, they materialized at the soaring, arched stone entrance to Marsgate Cemetery. In the distance a dozen Edwardian-garbed adventurers milled about in the gathering fog, the light of their illuminated wands dancing eerily across the tombstones.

“My group.” Draco waved his hand proudly. “They call themselves the Mysterians. What they are is a subset of the Most Potent Society of Potioneers. All potions makers are good investigators, so it’s just the smallest sidestep into amateur sleuthing.”

Hermione stayed silent, unsure how to respond to this new information. She’d pictured Malfoy as a totally self-sufficient bast… er, loner.

“You’re surprised that I have helpers.” Draco told her as they walked deeper into the cemetery. “Did you really think I can do what I do all on my own? Well, you’d be right, of course.” He grinned. “I can. But everyone needs a network, occasionally. I like knowing all the brilliant things mine can learn from observing me.”

“Showoff.” Hermione couldn’t help smiling to herself as she moved forward to greet the members she knew, allowing Draco to introduce her to those she didn’t.

At the edge of the group, she was startled to see Harry and Pansy standing side by side, close but not touching. Pansy wore a black and lavender walking costume, her nails un-authentically painted to match. 

“Your hat is good,” Hermione told her, after hugging Harry.

“Yours, too. Walk with me?” 

Arm in arm, they strolled away from the small crowd, over the dew-covered grass of a foggy, summer night. 

“Pans, what are you doing here with Harry? I thought that he and Ginny…”

“Were getting back together?” Pansy shook her head. “They were. It lasted for not quite a week. Harry wants to believe her when she says nothing happened with Marcus Flint, but he confided in me that Ginny murmured Marcus’ name in her sleep last night. He’s moved out again.”

In spite of the seriousness of Harry’s situation, Hermione couldn’t stop herself from wondering, just for a split second, what name Malfoy might mutter in his sleep. 

Pansy gave her an annoyed look. “He wouldn’t say anything but 'Draco,'” she replied disgustedly, and Hermione quickly jerked her thoughts out of Pansy’s probing grasp.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“So do you.” Pansy arched one brow.

“Look, Pans… just because we can pry into each other’s thoughts doesn’t mean we should.”

“Oh, hell, Hermione— of course it does! I don’t intend to stop and I suspect you don’t either, if you’re honest.”

Hermione, who prided herself on being quite honest, changed the subject. “Do you think Ginny is telling the truth?” she asked.

“Like you, I only know the barest. Ginny’s admitted that she met Marcus for drinks but swears it never went further. Harry’s and her relationship is as flickery as fireflies. And right now, they’ve flicked off.”

Hermione knew the hope that was in Pansy’s thoughts and heart, though Pansy never spoke it aloud. But Harry and Ginny had a young son, which complicated matters. And Ginny was excellent at blocking the probings of the two expert friends, so who knew what the truth really was? 

“She wants Marcus. That’s a damned certain fact.” Pansy swung Hermione around and headed them back toward Draco and his group of Mysterians. _And I want Harry_ hung in the misty air— unsaid, yet loud as trumpets. 

“I’ll remind you that Harry and I are here to work,” Pansy told her. “Just like you are here to _work_ with Draco.”

Hermione saw no reason to argue with either statement.

Through the drifting fog they could see the top of Malfoy’s head, bright in the wand light but lower than the rest of the group, since he was now standing in an open grave.

“Granger! There you are. You’re assigned to be my assistant, so I would appreciate if you would do your job and assist me. I’d like you to hold my wand.”

Pansy snorted. “He doesn’t mean it, you know,” she whispered. “No one touches Malfoy’s ‘wand’ but himself.”

“Do not even go there,” Hermione hissed back, dropping Pansy’s arm and moving toward the edge of the grave. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to Pansy, or to herself.  


*

Standing above a half-open coffin with Malfoy’s wand in her hand, Hermione found it hard to concentrate. She’d thought the opportunity to view a corpse in its natural habitat would be interesting and educational. Instead, the skeleton lying below her was musty-smelling, creepy, and sad.

Draco was pointing to a faint, silvery residue that ran like a slug trail along the coffin’s edge, a remnant from the dark spell someone had used to locate this particular gravesite. 

“Spells of this sort are meant to fade quickly, leaving the authorities little time to track their source,” he told his group. “By mixing alum, rare gregorium, and mimsyward in precise proportions, I’ve created a potion that revives the spell for a bit, allowing more time for detective work.”

Hermione avoided staring at the skeleton by focusing instead on Draco’s Mysterians. They stood still and attentive, completely captivated by the brilliant, problem-solving automaton that was Malfoy in action. 

Especially the woman standing directly opposite. Pretty, with autumn-colored hair, transparent thoughts, and watchful eyes that never left Malfoy’s face.

Astoria Greengrass, Former Slytherin. Wants Draco badly. Finds his unavailability intriguing, challenging, and sexy as hell. Currently gathering her resources to pursue him, and… 

It was none of Hermione’s damned business. She pulled her thoughts away just as Astoria’s hostile gaze met hers across the open grave. Add: Wishes that she could be the one working with Malfoy and I could be the skeleton.

“But why choose this grave to disturb?” Draco was asking now. “Why dig up this particular corpse?” 

“I researched the deceased,” Terry Boot called from the back of the group. “The woman was a prostitute known for servicing customers with a fancy for graveyard sex.”

“That bit wasn’t in the death records,” his partner, Max something-or-other added and everyone laughed. “We found it in a little book called _Interesting Inhabitants of Marsgate_ that’s for sale in a shop ‘round the corner. The lady is buried where she plied her trade, and rather famous for it.”

“All fascinating, all well and good, but I’ll ask you again. Why her? Why this burial site?”

Astoria was now crouched beside the grave, her eyes gleaming in the wand light and intent on Draco’s. “Because the woman buried here had an extra finger.” Her voice was low and self-assured. “She had six, on her left hand.”

“Exactly!” Draco pointed in beaming approval. “Brilliant observational skills, Astoria.”

Hermione thought the other girl might skyrocket off into the night. Wished she would, actually.

Kneeling atop the coffin as the Mysterians crowded closer to observe, Draco gestured to what he and Astoria had noticed that the others hadn’t. “If you look just here, you can see that one of the skeleton’s finger bones has been removed, from the far outside of the left hand.” 

In the damp night air, Hermione shivered, remembering her history lessons. An extra little finger would have been a sign of witchcraft to Muggles of earlier times, and they wouldn’t have been exactly wrong. In the wizarding world, that skeletal bone could make a prized ingredient for those who worked dark magic.

Draco rose to his feet as the fog around the burial site shifted and swirled, the wand light piercing the night with fingers of its own. “We know why this grave was targeted. What we don’t know is who did it and to what further purpose.”

He glanced up at Hermione suddenly and she saw a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, as if he might have a very good idea of who did it, and didn’t like his suspicions.

The group broke up then, chattering about the revelations and what they’d learned, planning their next meeting and how they might help Draco solve the missing finger mystery.

“They won’t, you know.” Pansy said, at Hermione’s side.

“Won’t what?”

“Be allowed to help solve anything. It’s Draco’s show, it’s always been his show, and you can be sure that tonight was his stage, for some very specific reason. What that reason might be, I have no idea.”

“But Astoria…”

“Is now and will always be a bitch. Just like Karma. Some things never change,” Pansy said sagely. “Harry looks tired. I’d better run and see that he gets to Grimmauld Place safely.”

“Pans. You aren’t planning to…”

“Planning to what, Hermione? Suck his soul out through his cock and leave him crying, ‘Do it again?’ Really?” She rolled her eyes. “Where would be the wisdom in that, with his marriage going to hell and a young son on his mind? I’ll just tuck him up and then see him at the office tomorrow. Like the good friend that I am.” 

Hermione stared at Harry as Pansy walked off to join him. It wasn’t hard to sense what he was feeling. Wild sadness. Worry for Jamie, longing for what he’d shared with Ginny that now seemed to be in jeopardy. And on his far horizon, an intriguing, silvery something, so new that he wasn’t quite ready to give it a name. 

Leaving them to travel home on their own, Hermione went in search of Draco. She found him deep in conversation with Astoria, who wasn’t wearing Edwardian gear after all, but skinny jeans and tall boots.

“Granger, there you are. I seem to keep losing you. Astoria, you’ve been the star of the evening.” Draco touched the other witch’s arm. “But if you wouldn’t mind excusing us? We still have work to discuss.”

“Then I’ll see you at Tuesday’s meeting. I’m looking forward to it. As always.” She turned away, giving Hermione a glare that said _I’m flaying you alive in my mind._

Draco waited until Astoria had gone, speaking of inconsequential things as the fog seemed to gather itself around them, distorting light and sound. 

When he was sure they were alone, he fixed Hermione with a serious stare and said, “I have something I’d like to ask you. Would you be willing to dine with me at Malfoy Manor one evening next week?”

It was not what she’d been expecting.

“I’ve invited Pansy to come as well,” he added. “There’s something… someone… I need you to observe.”

Hermione squelched the flare of hope his question had ignited. The invitation was work-related. Possibly case-related, too, given that tiny frown she’d seen on his face earlier this evening. At least it was _her_ ‘brilliant observational skills’ that he’d requested, not Astoria’s…

In her head, Hermione stomped one button-hook boot and let out a loud scream. If jealousy was where her thoughts took her now, then it was time to let go of this idiotic longing for a man who was never going to see her as more than a partner for solving crimes _because he wasn’t able to._

“Granger.” Draco hissed suddenly, grabbing her arm and pulling her behind a large tombstone topped by a weeping angel. “Have your wand ready. Someone is out there in the fog, watching the gravesite. Watching _us.”_

*

Hermione’s head whipped ‘round. In the near distance she saw a figure, dark and still as night, barely visible in the shifting whiteness. It seemed to be staring at them, or at least facing in their direction.

“Is that the bone thief?” she whispered.

“Well, it’s too solid to be a ghost and it doesn’t smell like a risen corpse. It could be anyone. A caretaker. A graveyard fetishist. Your mother?” Draco raised one brow.

“My _mother_ would never… Oh. You think it could be a woman?”

“I think—“ 

A crack of green light shot over their heads, striking the angel’s left wing and sending stone chips flying.

Quick movement as the figure whirled, its billowing cloak spectral and eerie in the dimness. The fog was too thick for them to see where to aim a spell; there was nothing for it but to chase. 

Draco grabbed Hermione’s hand. They ran down the cemetery path and onto the ancient cobblestones of a narrow London street. Hands linked like children, or secret lovers escaping into the night. No, not lovers. Pansy had told her that Draco didn’t do lovers…

Focus lost, Hermione tripped on an uneven place in the cobbles and stumbled against Draco, sending them both crashing toward the cemetery wall. He caught her tightly in his arms to keep her from falling. For a moment, their heaving chests were pressed together and she could feel the racing of his heart.

Not a robot, then.

Hermione pressed her ear closer to listen, her own heart pounding furiously, her eyes closing in longing. Her breath against Draco’s neck, his in her hair as he held her. The world slowed, and slowed more. There was no cloaked figure, no quest, no case, only the fog-shrouded night and his arms tightening around her, the heavy mist dissolving in the heat of sweet, sweet want.

She heard the swift rush of a gasp from Draco. He dropped his arms and moved away.

“Right, Granger. Hard for you to run in those boots. Trainers next time, authentic or not.” He straightened his jacket, tugging at his cuffs.

Was he less composed than usual? Had he actually, possibly _felt_ something? 

“Whoever it was, they’ve gone. Apparated. I can feel it.” His back to her, Draco sniffed the air. “Smell it, too. How they’re up to no good. “

Back to the case, then. “You can’t smell a person’s intentions, Malfoy.” 

“Oh, but I can. It was one of things I learned to do in studying with the wizards of Tibet and the _voodooiennes_ of Louisiana.”

She wanted to ask him which of those magical practitioners had taught him to wall off his feelings so successfully. Pansy had told her that he’d perfected that ability during his years of travel and study. It was his way of blocking out the things he’d seen at the Manor during Voldemort’s reign of terror. 

Hermione sighed. Now was not the right moment for questions. Maybe there never would be a right moment.

Draco suddenly reached for her hand. “You’re tired. Time for you to Apparate home.” His words were kind and she stared up at him, surprised. “Before you go, there’s something I need to tell you about this case. I think a member of my family could be involved.”

Startled, Hermione asked only, “Who?”

“My Aunt Andromeda. Since Father died, she and Teddy have been living at the Manor. Mother’s afraid she may be showing signs of the Black family madness that took Bellatrix. Andromeda speaks sometimes of a longing to see my cousin Nymphadora raised from the dead.”

Hermione shuddered, and not from the touch of fog curling over her skin. “You think she stole the finger bone?”

“To create a dark magic spell. It’s possible. I’d rather not believe it, but when I examined the gravesite earlier this week—at the Ministry’s request— I found this.” From his pocket he produced a tiny strand of jet beads, the type once used on mourning jewelry. “Andromeda has a locket with a snippet of Tonks’ hair that she wears around her neck, always. Mother told me it had broken and that my aunt was very upset. This segment of beads is a perfect match.”

“Gods, Malfoy.”

“I need you and Pansy to observe my aunt, probe her mind if you can. Would Tuesday work? Dinner at eight?”

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

It was not lost on Hermione that Draco would be missing that next meeting of the Mysterians, the one Astoria had been so looking forward to. She imagined dining with Draco when news arrived that Astoria Greengrass had spontaneously combusted. It would be tragic, unexpected, and totally satisfying.

*

 

On Tuesday evening Hermione met Pansy at her flat so they could travel to the Manor together. She’d felt some trepidation about going to a place where she’d once been held captive and tortured. But Draco had sent an owl earlier, announcing they would dine outside since the August weather had improved. Thoughtful Malfoy. Who knew?

“So, you didn’t chide Draco about concealing evidence when he discovered those beads?” Pansy stood before her foyer mirror, slicking on cherry-red lipstick.

“What would be the point? It’s not the first illegal thing we’ve let him do, is it?” Hermione couldn’t risk thinking about that foggy night, how distracted she’d been by the feel of Draco’s arms around her. Pansy would pick up those kinds of thoughts in an instant. “It’s not like there’s been a murder. Just a minor grave robbery.”

“That could lead to dark magic. Still, if Andromeda’s gone barmy, the family deserves the right to put her away privately, with dignity.” Pansy turned from the mirror. “Ready, then?”

Minutes later, they’d landed on the far side of the Manor grounds, inside a circle of green, glowing manure. Flames leaped to waist height; the smell was indescribable. Draco stood quietly on the other side, observing them across the dancing fire.

“We’re in a burning ring of shite!” Pansy coughed, holding her nose. “Draco, why are we in a burning ring of…”

“Because Teddy’s been complaining of strange shadows near the woods at night. A result, no doubt, of too many spooky stories after lights out in the Gryffindor dorms.” Draco looked at Hermione as if she might somehow be at fault, as a former Gryffindor.

“What good does _this_ do?” she gasped, fingers clamped over her nose.

“It keeps Teddy happy.” Draco waved his wand with a few muttered words and the flames shrank and then died. 

“So it actually does nothing?” Pansy stepped across the smoldering manure with Hermione following.

“Correct. But for a twelve-year-old boy, the more disgusting and offensive something is, the more effectively it solves a problem.” Draco grinned. “We’ll be dining on the patio, far from the ring of shite, of course. And it’s just the five of us. Mother’s in London overnight, with a friend.”

Walking with Draco and Pansy through the last glow of sunset, Hermione ignored the Manor. She focused instead on the pleasant-looking, middle-aged witch who sat at a table near a goldfish pond, surrounded by star-shaped lanterns on tall poles. By pretending just the tiniest bit, Hermione could imagine the house with its bad memories was miles away. 

“Hello,” Andromeda said politely, rising and extending her hand to Pansy first and then to Hermione. “What pretty witches you are, and what a surprise. I’d more or less decided that Draco must be like Uncle Albert, who preferred gentlemen. Maybe,” she cast a sly look from one younger woman to the other and clapped her hands, “Draco’s invited you for a threesome after dinner? Naricssa’s away; Teddy and I have our own wing of the Manor. I promise not to tell a soul, if that is the way you swing…”

Before she could say more, the French doors near the patio opened and Teddy appeared. He was a dark-haired boy with a glint in his eyes, so very like Tonks that Hermione’s throat tightened. 

Throughout dinner, he kept them entertained with stories of his first year at Hogwarts as well as his metamorphmagus abilities. By meal’s end, Teddy had spilled his drink twice. Hermione’s head was spinning from the boy’s constant morphing and from her own efforts to pry into the murky depths of Andromeda’s mind. 

Teddy finally asked to be excused, bounding off toward the house as Draco’s aunt rose from her chair. “This has been lovely, but I’ll leave you younger people to enjoy the rest of your evening.” She winked at Hermione. “After all, four is a rather a crowd, isn’t it? But three— now _that_ is a prime number.” 

She disappeared through the French doors, leaving Draco to pour more wine for his guests and ask, “Your thoughts?”

“Besides the obvious?” Pansy smiled and shook her head. “Your aunt’s not guilty, Draco. I have no idea how her strand of beads got in that grave, but I didn’t sense that kind of madness from her. Hermione?”

“She never mentioned Tonks at all. I felt a deep, inner despair that there’s no way to bring her daughter back, but no dark plan to actually make it happen. St. Mungo’s’ healers could do wonders for Andromeda’s mental state, if she gets treatment right away. “ 

Draco nodded. “It’s what I’ve sensed myself, but I needed your unprejudiced opinions. The beads are a bit too plausible. Someone planted them when they stole the finger bone, to cast suspicion on Andromeda.”

“But you have no idea who?” Hermione asked.

“Do you really imagine that I don’t?”

“I think you suspect Astoria,” she said, tossing her curls at Draco’s startled look. “That’s why you had the Mysterians meet at the gravesite. Astoria knew the corpse had six fingers because she’d been there before. She couldn’t resist showing off.”

“Oh, you _are_ brilliant, aren’t you, Granger?”

Hermione glowed and Pansy turned her head to mouth _Watch yourself_ where Draco couldn’t see her.

“Why Astoria?” Pansy asked. “How did she get Andromeda’s beads? She would have to have stolen them from the Manor.”

Draco simply grinned and changed the subject. “Right now I need to check on my relatives, so if you wouldn’t mind seeing yourselves out through the shite ring? The odor might have settled a bit. If you’re lucky.” Hermione caught the hint of a smirk and then his eyes met hers. 

He tilted his head, giving her a long, quizzical look as if she were a puzzle he needed badly to decipher. Or was he curious, she wondered, to know how it might feel to kiss her?

Hermione’s lips parted, her mind taking her there. Then, “Goodnight,” she breathed as Draco turned away.

Luckily Pansy had already stomped off toward the smoldering circle. “Do you want to stop in for tea?” Hermione asked, catching up with her.

“I… promised to visit Harry after dinner.”

“Now whose turn is it to _watch herself_?” 

“It’s not like that, Hermione— just my and Harry’s version of ‘Friend Hospital.’ He needs to talk about Ginny, about Marcus, about what he should do. And I need to be there for him. The same way that you needed to be here for Draco this evening.”

There was nothing she could say to that except, “Give Harry a hug. For me.”

*

Hermione lay awake that night, thinking about Draco’s silent grin when asked how Astoria had obtained his aunt’s beads.

That silence could mean one of two things: Either he knew far more about Astoria Greengrass than Hermione wished he did. Or Malfoy-the-Bloody-Brilliant had _no_ idea how Astoria had got those beads and was covering up a rare defeat.

Four days later, she learned the answer was a bit of both.

Draco sent an owl asking her to drop by his flat after work. Hermione found him standing at the window, washed in August sunlight. In one hand he held a vial of bright-yellow powder. Everything about him looked glowing, successful, undefeated.

“Ah, Granger. Glad you’re here. I have news about our case. This,” He handed her the vial, “is a powerful Revealing Powder, formulated to show the presence of one specific individual in one specific location.”

“In this case, Astoria at the Manor?” Her mind leaped ahead. “You’ve used the powder to prove she somehow got inside your family’s home?”

“I used it.” He frowned. “But the powder revealed not a single trace of Astoria’s presence. She must have magically erased all evidence after stealing the beads. The woman's clever, very clever.” 

Oh, Astoria was _clever_ all right, and Hermione was suddenly damned tired of it. 

On a whim, she wrenched the cap from the vial and flung the powder across the room. It drifted over the floor, turning from pollen yellow to glittery gold as it landed. 

“No evidence of Astoria at the Manor. But here’s proof that she was all over your flat. What’s her motive, Malfoy? Because she’s certainly been trolling for means and opportunity.”

Draco stared at Hermione, his eyes alive with curiosity at her sudden outburst. “She’s been stalking me for weeks.”

“Then I’ll just assume she’s the one who attacked us that night at the cemetery. What I’d like to know is why?”

“Truthfully, Granger? I think she’s playing an elaborate game.”

“Of what? Hide the Bone— The Finger Version?” Bloody hell, she was starting to sound like Pansy. And did Draco seriously just… almost laugh?

“Perhaps Wizarding Chess, The Seduce-and-Conquer Edition,” he told her. “Astoria sees me as a challenge. A specimen she’d like to add to her vast collection. Creating a case for me to solve would be part of her game.” 

He was watching Hermione closely now, maybe more closely than he ever had. Her turn to be the specimen, then. “This conversation we’re having, Granger. The words we’re choosing. Some of it seems to make you feel… jealous.” 

She wanted to deny it, but knew Malfoy would sense the lie. Instead, she stayed silent and waited for him to continue.

“Several nights ago, I came home and found Astoria sitting in that chair.” Draco pointed. “Wearing nothing at all.”

Red fire flashed in front of Hermione’s eyes, but she kept still.

“Astoria’s been owling me for weeks, asking if she could ‘make drinks for me.’ This time, she’d come to make the offer in person.”

“And?” 

Draco stepped closer, his long fingers slowly encircling Hermione’s wrist, skin to skin. “I told her that when I’m thirsty, I’m very, very good at making my own damned drink.”

Hermione felt her face flush as her imagination rushed to provide her with an image of Draco Malfoy satisfying his own thirst. Thoroughly, completely, vividly. _Gods…_

Draco’s hand slid from her wrist. He moved to stand at the window, his back to her. “There’s only one way to prove Astoria’s guilt. We need to use my experimental potion.”

Hermione struggled to switch gears once again, blocking out the feel of his fingers on her skin. Here was the _real_ reason Malfoy hadn’t looked defeated earlier. He couldn’t wait to use his new potion, to have the chance to test it on an actual case.

“My potion will let me travel within the memory of the cemetery watchman, who saw someone fleeing the crime scene. If I can arrive in those few prior moments, I can catch Astoria in the act.”

“Malfoy, your potion is dangerous. There’s no telling what might happen!”

“Never stopped me before. Are you coming with me?”

“Gods, yes.”

“I thought so.” He grinned. “Gryffindor to the bone, then.” 

Hermione laughed. “Let’s do it tonight. I’ll Floo Pansy to keep watch over us while we time travel.”

*

London, England. Ten p.m. 24th August.

Except that, for Hermione and Draco, the time was midnight, 3rd August. 

The starry night they’d left behind had been replaced by a dismal one, nearly as bad as the night of the Mysterians’ meeting. The ground was wet from an earlier rain and fog rose in drifting sheets, like ghosts untethered from their graves. 

Hermione had drunk Malfoy’s luminous black potion, then joined him inside the cemetery watchman’s memory. The dizziness, disorientation, and blurred vision it caused had almost passed. But not quite.

“Are you all right, Granger? You seem to be swaying,” Draco said as they headed into the cemetery. 

“I’m fine. Just a lingering bit of… double-vision.”

“Hah. No different than when you’ve had too much fire whiskey. And no, I didn’t probe your mind for that bit of information. Pansy told me.”

She had? Why would she do that, Hermione wondered, unless Draco had asked? And why would he ask, unless he was curious to know what she was really like? 

It made for an arresting thought, but one Hermione didn’t have time for now. Because in the near distance, she could hear digging. The sharp _crunch-thunk_ of a shovel being applied to a dark, previously undisturbed grave.

Draco held up one hand and she stopped. He pointed to the stone angel they’d stood beside on another August night, its wing unmarred by the future blast from Astoria’s wand. 

Together, they crept nearer to the sound of the shovel and crouched behind the angel, Hermione’s heart began to pound. In moments, they’d catch the bone thief in the act. She knew that unless a prosecutor could prove dark intent, Astoria would escape with minimal punishment. But still, to lay this case to rest would be another feather in the Malfoy/Granger crime-solving cap.

Draco was leaning forward to peer around the tomb. Hermione leaned with him and saw the thief at work. A wand extended to direct the shovel’s movements. A dark cloak visible through the swirling mist, the hood shoved back to plainly show the digger’s face. 

Hermione saw no pretty features, no autumn-colored hair. Because it wasn’t Astoria Greengrass, planting the beads and stealing the finger bone.

It was Draco Malfoy.

*

  
When Hermione opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor staring at Draco’s ceiling far overhead.

Her mouth tasted of rancid mint; there was drool at the corner. Wiping it away, she sat up slowly, holding her forehead with one hand.

Beside her Draco lay unconscious. Pansy stood over him, her wand aimed at his throat. 

“What happened?” Hermione groaned. “The last thing I remember is seeing Malfoy digging up that grave!”

“You were screaming,” Pansy told her. “It was creepy as hell. Loud, long, and very far away. I gave you both that white potion. The one that looks like semen but brings you back from The Wherever. Then I probed your mind. I know you found out that Draco is the bone thief.” 

She prodded the culprit with the toe of one shoe. “I also know that he’s awake and listening to every word of this conversation.”

Draco’s eyes popped open and shifted slowly from one witch to the other. “Am I to assume that I am in deep shite?” he asked.

“Very deep.” Pansy poked him twice more. “And in just a little while, when Hermione feels up to it, we’re going to have the psychological version of a threesome. She and I are going to be all over your mind, probing it so hard to find out why the _hell_ you did something that could have incriminated your aunt!”

Draco stared up at Pansy from his place on the floor. “I know why,” he said finally. “I did it because of her.” He jerked his chin in Hermione’s direction.

“How is this suddenly my fault?” she protested.

Draco ignored her. “I’ve decided that I want what you want, Pansy.”

“You want Harry?”

“No! I want what you _feel_ for Harry. But I want it with Granger.”

Hermione broke in, too confused to sit silently by and be discussed. “You do? But why would that cause you to steal the bone and implicate Andromeda?”

“I needed to be jarred on an emotional level. A clever version of shock therapy for myself.”

“Bloody hell,” Pansy muttered. “Why did I not see this coming? Hermione wants Malfoy the Mindbender and damned if he doesn’t want her back, leading them into all sorts of crimes and cleverness. It’s like a messy, Muggle movie plot.” 

She lowered her wand. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to use the fireplace in your laboratory to Floo Harry. You’ll have half an hour for discussion, so you’d better make it count. By the way…” She pointed to a nearby table where a small, brownish object lay. “I found the bone in that drawer while you two were time traveling.”

“I knew it was there.” Draco shrugged. “I assumed Astoria planted it the night she broke into my flat. But I must have put it there myself.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Astoria, Andromeda. Tell it to Hermione. You can fill me in later.”

After she’d gone, the clock ticked while the night lay silently outside.

Draco sprawled in an armchair; Hermione stayed on the floor, stretching out her legs and leaning back on her hands. 

“Well, Malfoy?” she asked. “Pansy said to make it count. I’m waiting.”

“My mind’s full of chess boards, Granger,” he replied, not looking at her. “I keep one for each person in my life that has any significance. I try to stay two moves ahead. But not with you. You’ve affected me in ways I couldn’t plan for. With you, I want… to feel things.”

Hermione moved across the floor then and knelt beside Draco’s chair, her hand on his knee. “Pansy told me that after the war, you walled yourself off from emotions. That you’d learned to do it on purpose.”

“It’s true. During Voldemort’s time, I saw horrors that…” He paused, staying silent for a long moment. “Burying it deep was the only way I could survive. Walls of stone, mountains of dirt, over my feelings. When I began to work with you, I wanted that to change. But I’d buried it all too well.”

“So you thought that inventing a crime implicating your family would shake you up emotionally? Shatter some of the barriers you’d put in place?”

“Brilliant deduction, Granger.” Draco smiled. “I made a sort of hypnotizing potion that allowed me to commit the crimes but not remember what I’d done.” 

“Astoria was an unexpected complication.” Hermione watched him from beneath her lashes.

“Very much so. She shifted my focus away from Andromeda as the suspect. But all that time, you were there, too. Working so closely with you— well, we’re rather an unstoppable team.”

In her mind, Hermione threw confetti and shouted _Bon voyage, bitch!_ as Astoria sailed away on a Titanic-style ocean liner. Smiling, she returned to the conversation. “When we saw you in the memory, digging up the grave…”

“That was my trigger. It all came back to me, what I’d done and why. Just as I’d planned.”

“The _why_ being…”

“You.” He leaned forward then and pulled her toward him, until she was up and seated in his lap. “There’s a magic I feel when I’m around you, beyond the power we have as wizards and witches. Magic of a different sort.” 

He sounded as amazed as she felt. She was here, in his arms, not by accident but by design. His design.

“You make me want to take down the walls,” he murmured into her hair. “But you need to know it may never be a total success. There are some things that need to stay buried. Could you live with that?”

“I could.”

“Then maybe it’s time to experience all those interesting things I haven’t tasted yet.” Draco cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as he pulled her mouth toward his. 

The kiss was everything Hermione could have imagined. Not hungry or devouring, but exploratory, filled with burning questions and endless curiosity. It was good. So, so good.

“Draco,” she breathed. “You kiss better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Of course I do. Let’s keep going.” And they did. 

They were still at it when Pansy returned twenty minutes later. “Well, it appears you’ve got it all sorted.”

Was her gaze a bit wistful, her smile a little too fierce? “Pansy, are you okay?” Hermione asked.

The other witch moved to stare out the window, her back to the couple in the chair. “Harry and Ginny have decided to work things out. It’s right for their family. For me as well. Friends forever. This way I’ll never lose him, you know, never disappoint him the way Ginny’s done.”

“Pans, we’re so sorry.”

“I’m fine with it.” She swung around to face them. “Time I learned that you can’t always get what you haunt. Stop looking at me like that! It’s all for the best with Harry, it really is.”

But was it? Hermione wondered. Ginny had always liked the boys, back in their Hogwarts days. What if some things never changed?

“If you can keep your mouth off Hermione for five minutes,” Pansy said to Draco, “I’d like the details of your venture into Crimes for Good Mental Health. And a stiff drink to go with it, please.”

A bottle of fire whiskey and much discussion later, it was time to wrap up the evening. 

“I need to turn the finger bone over to the Ministry for safe keeping,” Hermione told the others. “To re-bury it would simply attract more thieves. It’s too useful for all sorts of dark magic, from Resurrection spells to love philters and everything in between.”

She moved to the small table where the bone lay.

“Wait a minute. It’s gone. Draco? Where is the bone?”

“I don’t have it.” Draco grinned, hands in his pockets. “You’re welcome to search me. Thoroughly.”

“Pansy?”

Pansy stood in the fireplace, one hand closed around a fistful of Floo powder. “How should I know?”

A flash of green, the echo of her voice as she vanished. “Do I look like a bone thief to you?”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my brilliant and beautiful beta, eilonwy-- friends, always! To the readers: I hope this captures a bit of the spirit of Sherlock/Watson, with maybe a bit of a veer toward Sherlock/Molly as well. :)
> 
> For anyone not familiar with the main pair, Sherlock is a famous detective, a creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He's clever, unconventional, charming, odd at times, a real individual who follows his own path, often to the exclusion of others. Watson, his loyal friend and sidekick, is a bit more "normal."


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